Chapter 9
The other two couples, George and Emily Pulver and Fred and Joan something-Martha didn't quite get the last name-cracked jokes and laughed all the way to the airport. They seemed half drunk or high on pot and had a grand time, despite the fact that the mist of rain had increased to a drizzle that was cold and didn't seem anxious to leave.
Both couples were young, late twenties, and made allusion to swapping. George, who was on the beefy side but good-looking in spite of it, leaned over toward Martha at one point in the ride and whispered into her ear.
"Why don't you ditch your girl friend and come with us, baby? We're out for fun. Joan-likes your looks. You two ought to get on."
"Oh, I'm not sure it would end with Joan," Martha said, teasing him. "I think you and Fred have ulterior motives."
"Maybe we do," he grinned. "Better yet, bring her along. She looks like a hot one."
"Too hot for you," Martha laughed.
"Is it a deal?" He nearly panted in her ear.
"Maybe," she said.
George leaned back with a satisfied grin on his face. He made a sign to his wife, Emily, who looked at Martha with renewed interest and a peculiar smile.
In spite of the fact that she wasn't too pretty, having a nose that was too big and a neck too long, big breasts and no butt, Martha felt a sensual thrill go through her at the thought of all of them joining together in a sexual orgy. She knew she could never do such a thing-at least not yet-but she thought about it and felt her excitement mount.
Martin was waiting for them at the airport', and when Martha saw him standing there, she began to feel sorry for the way Alva had treated him last night. Not only Alva, but herself.
"Hello, Martin," she said, trying to be as friendly as she could.
He looked at her a moment. His eyes held a feverish look she couldn't define. He didn't speak to her but to all of them.
"Everybody back in," he said. "We have to go to the last building." He got in with them.
"What the hell is this?" George demanded. "Another foul-up?"
"No, sir," Tuesta said. "We leave from another building, that's all. Everything has been arranged. We depart for Quito shortly."
The limousine rolled through the drizzle. There was no canopy, and they all ran for the front door of the private terminal. Inside, waiting for them, was a man who struck Martha as being a walking conflict of characters.
Externally, his appearance was lean and hard. His eyes were a piercing blue around the pupils but shot with red through the whites, as if he was a man with a dream of glory and the determination to achieve it, but was sustaining the dream on cheap rum instead of his will.
His nose was strong, but it showed the weakness of having been broken, most-likely in a drunken brawl. His shoulders and arms weren't big, yet they concealed iron strength. His mouth had a firmness to it, but the lips were soft. He wore cheap, faded, dark pants and a yellow shirt that looked brand new. Over it was a scratched, dirty, sweat-stained leather flight jacket, which had long ago lost its original dye and was now a dirty buff. A well-worn Panama, in a cowboy style better suited to a rancher, perched on the crown of his head so that a tuft of sandy hair poked out from under the dirty brim in a disarray that covered his forehead.
He scrutinized each of them minutely as they came in, doing it in one quick glance, and then pushed himself away from the counter. He stuck out his hand and shook with the men, and Martha watched George and Fred wince from his grip. But he was very gentle and soft with the women-especially, Martha noticed, with Clara.
"You the Inca tour people?" he asked. His voice was scratchy yet resonant.
"Yeah," George said, puffing himself up slight. "Who're you?"
"Winston Sharp. I'm your pilot from here out. Isn't there a Mr. Tuesta with you?"
"He's out in the rain, I'm afraid," Clara spoke up, eyeing him with interest. "He's bringing our luggage in. I do think one of you men should help him," she suggested.
George and Fred weren't interested. They stood by the door and watched Tuesta argue the driver out into the rain. They slogged through puddles under the burden and stamped their feet once they were inside. Tuesta gave the driver some money, who puffed back out and drove away. Then he looked at Winston Sharp and put on a flash grin.
"Martin Tuesta," he said, sticking out his hand.
There was an obvious, cold reaction. Sharp made no move toward the offered hand. His eyes pierced through the space between them and took in the long hair, hanging shabbily now because of the rain, and the slick, glib appearance of Tuesta. Martha could sense the immediate dislike Sharp held. There was a slight withdrawing, a slight curling of the lip, a sudden bumping of skin and lifting of hackles, as if the dislike were on a primitive level none of them would have been able to analyze.
"We'd better get moving," Sharp said. "There's a front coming in we can miss if we don't dawdle around here. My co-pilot will take care of the luggage. Tuesta, come on in here a minute."
He turned sharply and walked with a sturdy stride toward an office. Martha noticed the boots for the first time. She looked at Martin. Hatred was thick in his eyes, but he followed Winston into the office. The co-pilot came in and brushed water off his neck. He looked at them, said nothing, and began picking up the suitcases with a surly look on his face. He was small, with black, curly hair and a pocked face.
"Good God!" George swore, no longer amused by any of it. "What the hell are we getting into now? Come on, Fred, let's see what the hell we're flying in."
Fred, who was tall and skinny, dark-haired, and with an expression that would become a spaniel's in a few years, followed George to the door the co-pilot had gone out of. Martha went with them. She saw a relic DC-3 sitting on the field, badly in need of washing. Oil stains were heavy around the engine.
"Christ, I'm not flying in that thing with that hayseed!" George boomed heavily.
"You shouldn't judge a book by its cover, Mr. Pulver," Clara said, coming up behind them. "After all, an airplane flies by mechanical soundness, not on the way it looks. And personally, I feel quite confident of Captain Sharp's ability."
"Shit," George said. "How would you know anything about a bush pilot like him? I've seen his kind before. They hang around the docks and the rail yards and the oil towns and cattle pens looking for a buck to buy a bottle of crap with and will do anything to get it. No thanks," he said firmly.
Clara was undaunted. "It's in the eyes, Mr. Pulver. You can always read a man by his eyes. I like what's in Captain Sharp's eyes, and I'll trust him."
George looked at Fred, then Martha, then shook his head. "Women are crazy," he muttered, going back into the room. The door to the office opened just then, and Tuesta came out looking visibly upset and harried. Winston stood just inside with his hands on his hips in a solid, no-nonsense stance, his hat still perched on the back of his head. His eyes had a steely look to them. He rubbed his palms on his pants and came out, trying to change his attitude for the sake of the others.
"Everything's settled," he said. "We'd better go, or we won't beat that front."
George confronted him in a blustery way. "That plane doesn't look capable of beating a turtle, Sharp," he said. "And you make the damnedest-looking pilot I've ever seen. I want to see your license. Do they license pilots down here?"
Winston glared at him, sighed heavily, and whipped out his wallet. George read a card and another and a third one and then went a little red.
"Let me tell you something, Pulver," Sharp said in a low voice, putting his wallet back.
"That plane's older than you are, probably, but I'll guarantee you it's in better shape. It might look like hell right now, and maybe the inside won't be the first-class kind of stuff you're used to, but that's because I live in that plane. I've just finished an exploration job with one of the oil companies back home, and if you want credentials, you can call the president of it. He's flown with me. Not just him, but other big wheels scouting the basin for oil-oil and lumber and tin and any other damned resource you can think of that some geologist has said might be there.
"That plane is my best buddy, my wife, and my kids to me, and I treat it like that. I flew France and Germany during the war when you were still in diapers. I flew in Africa for a while until Korea broke out, and then I chased MIGs. I've flown for PanAm and Brasilia and a hundred you've never heard of until I got tired of taking orders. Then I bought that heap out there with all the sweat I've sweated over one thing and another in that jungle on the other side, and I hire out wherever and whenever I can-and this just happens to be one of those times. Now, if you don't like the way I'm dressed, Pulver, you can stuff it. And if you don't like the way my plane looks, then you can walk across this goddamn continent, I don't care. But if you want to come along, then we'd i better get moving. I guarantee I can fly by the seat of my pants when I have to, but not in all weather, got me?"
"Bravo, Captain Sharp," Clara cheered, clapping her hands a few times. "I knew you were that kind of man. I'll fly with you anywhere."
"Thank you," he said, giving her a small, warm smile.
George shuffled his feet and looked down at them, seeing Sharp's boots at the same time, as though none of it were real.
"Sorry, Sharp," he said.
"Let me tell you something else, Pulver," he said, lowering his voice, his eyes looking askance at Tuesta. "You want something to worry about, it isn't me or my plane. It's that son of a bitch over there. I don't know what the hell you people are into, but you'd better get out of it in Quito or sooner."
"What do you mean?" Martha asked. "What is it about Martin? Nobody seems to like him."
Winston looked at her with obvious appreciation for her beauty and a kind of sadness in his face that made her feel child-like-as if he were her father, wanting to explain something she wasn't quite old enough to understand. It disconcerted her and made her like him at the same time.
"Well, I shouldn't get anybody upset," he hedged.
"Winston, tell us." Clara insisted. She looked up into his face as if he were the only one in the room with her. He scratched his scalp, debating, then readjusted the hat to the same ridiculous angle.
"Somebody called me," he said. "Put on a big act over the phone, but I could hear he was in a bind, you know what I mean? We haggled over a fee for his tour thing, and he said Tuesta would show up with it. I know damn well it was that long-hair punk over there who called, he hasn't got the money, either. It's in Quito, he says. Maybe so. I was headed for Guayaquil anyway, and it doesn't much matter to me whether I fly empty or with you people, except in principle. But that's not exactly the point. This whole thing seems so shabbily run I can't believe it. He's got you by the short ones down here, so you can kiss whatever money you paid him goodbye if he folds on you. I'll do what I can if any kind of trouble comes up though."
"Are you expecting it?" Clara asked.
He looked at her. His eyes went soft for a moment. "I don't know, Clara. Call it the hunch of an old hard-nosed, seat-of-the-pants kind of cynic I am, but I don't trust any son of a bitch with long hair these days. I had to scratch and dig to make my way through this world. Nobody gave a damn whether I made it, either, and I didn't look for any free handouts along the way. But these long-hair bastards today expect a pass through life. Give it to them, and they throw a bomb in your face, because it wasn't good enough, free or not. It's as bad down here as at home-even worse. I've seen too many of them who've got it made, if they'd only see they have, running around stirring up trouble, playing Che in their twenties the way we used to play Superman in short pants. As for Tuesta, I don't like the way he looks, talks, walks, makes deals, or anything else about him."
"Or the wildness in his eyes?"
"That especially," he said.
"See, Mr. Pulver?" Clara chided him.
"Wait a minute," Winston said. "I might be all wet, you know. I said it was just a feeling. He might be perfectly legit-worried about making his company go, and all that. He says there's another passenger boarding in Quito tomorrow-somebody flying down from the States to join on." He shrugged. "I don't know."
"If you feel this way, Captain," Alva said, coming up to the small group, "then why are you accepting this job?"
"The money, lady," he said bluntly. "A few more quickies like this, and I can fly this baby back home. I've about had it here. It's all gone to hell, and nothing's the way it used to be. They're bulldozing down the jungle everywhere you look, plowing under the mystery and wonder of it. The Indians are getting too civilized to live in the jungle any more, and they're too primitive to fit into our world. They've lost their pride and spirit and are confused. Then guys like Guevara come along and try to stir them up against something they don't even understand, and they turn against him because they're stirred up enough already." He shook his head. "It's all gone to hell, and I've stood here and watched it" His co-pilot came in again and gave him a signal. "All right," he said. "Let's go."
"Winston," Clara said, stopping him, waiting until the others were going toward file plane. "Could it be that you've done the changing? Could it be that maybe you're just ready to settle down now?" Her face flushed with the boldness of her approach, and Martha could see the bright shine in her eyes.
Sharp studied her a moment. His eyes went softly over her hair and her face and stopped at her breasts.
"Maybe," he smiled. He put his arm around her shoulder to move her along, and Martha saw the tiny shiver that passed through Clara's starved body.